


Bedfellows - Five Times Hamilton Shared a Bed

by GwendolynGrace



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, First Time, Gen, M/M, Oral Sex, Schmoop, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what it says on the label. I. Ned Stevens (Angsty Gen); II. Robert Troup (M/M); III. John Laurens (M/M UST); IV. Elizabeth Schuyler (M/F); V. Philip Hamilton (Schmoopy Gen). A little something for everyone!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. St. Croix, 1770

**Author's Note:**

> This is cross-posted to "Hamilton - Miranda" for those with an interest. I owe a debt to the musical for shading various interpretations of the characters, but they are presented here in their historical contexts. 
> 
> I'm also still delving into more of the history, so forgive any errors. Never let facts get in the way of a good story!
> 
> For those of you looking for Lams, there will be more....

I. St. Croix, 1770

_He's choking. No, he's drowning. Sinking further into dark, murky water, pulling him, making his clothes heavy--but no, it's not water, it's earth. A grave. Falling in an endless tomb, clods of dirt encasing him. He can't breathe, he--_

Alexander sits bolt-upright in bed, gasping for air. He wakes with one arm outflung, as if he had been clutching for something that wasn't there. 

"Alex?" Ned asks. He's sitting up beside him. "You're all right. You shouted. You were dreaming."

Alexander nods. "I'm all right now." But he doesn't lie back down. Ned puts a brotherly arm about the younger boy's shoulders.

"Do you want to tell me about your dream?" he asks.

The answer, when it comes, is a hoarse whisper. "No." 

Ned shrugs. "Then we'd better try to get some sleep. You've got work tomorrow and I've my lessons."

"You'll be gone to New York soon," Alexander laments. "Who will I have to talk to?"

"We'll write. And perhaps you'll--"

"No. I'll be stuck on this rock. Clerking."

"Father says Mr. Cruger praises you all the time. You're good at it."

"I hate it."

"But you're constantly reading about it."

Alexander nods. "Because I hate it. I have to learn everything to get to something better." He looks over at Ned, making eye contact for the briefest moment. Ned doesn't understand. Alexander can't blame him but he didn't expect Ned to get it, either. 

It was a mistake, looking at him. He'd been collecting his thoughts, calming himself after the nightmare. Seeing Ned's face in the shadows makes him anxious again. He turns, settling on the pillow. After a moment, he feels Ned lie down, too.

"Ned?" he asks, now that he doesn't have to see his open affection and care. 

"Yes?"

"Just...don't die, all right?"

"What, tonight?" Ned quips. It's only, Alexander knows, that the statement startled him so much.

"I mean it."

"I'm not going to die, Alex. I'm in perfect health."

"I don't just mean tonight."

"Well, I've no plans to die tomorrow, either. Nor in the near future." 

Alexander shakes his head. This isn't a japing matter. "You're leaving soon. You're going to sea. It's dangerous. And people say the colonies are getting worse. Students making trouble with soldiers. Please, it's important. Don't get killed."

Ned raises himself on one elbow. "I'm not going to die, Alex. Don't fret." It's easy for him to say. But a moment later, as if to assure him that he's not disparaging Alexander's fear, Ned slides his free hand across the coverlet and finds Alexander's to clasp.

"Alex?" 

"Yes, Ned?"

Ned struggles with his next statement before blurting, "I'm sure you've heard the...whispers. Rumours. Not that anyone would say it to our faces…."

"About your father and...my mother?" Alexander surmises. 

"Well...yes. That we look so much alike, and...and all that."

Alexander turns around, without letting go Ned's hand. "I've heard the gossip. I don't credit it, though. People think Mathias van Klewe and and Robert Foucault look alike and they've nothing in common, apart from a similar colouring. Besides, I don't believe your father capable of…of dishonouring your excellent mother that way. And--"

"--And your mother, too, was honourable in every possible respect, I know," Ned agrees hastily. "I don't think so, either. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like if we really were real brothers."

Alexander takes the time to consider this. It's not as if he never has considered it. What would it be like to be acknowledged by a concerned father, to explain why he and James share so little, or just to be able to call the Stevenses family in truth? But in the last five years he has been taught futility, in addition to despair and skepticism. He sighs. "It wouldn't matter. I'd still be a bastard, just by a different father."

If Ned's shocked by Alexander's candor, he does a credible job of hiding it. "I meant fully, but--well, even if it were like you say, Father would want you to make the best of yourself. _Wants_ you to have a fair chance," he corrects himself. "What if he were to sponsor your education? You could follow to King's College. We could both take up medicine. Set up a practice together, side by side."

"Together," Alexander smiles indulgently.

"Together." Ned squeezes his hand with reassurance.

Alexander's smile fades. "It's a lovely notion, Neddy. But it's the sort of thing that could drive one mad with bedevilment." Despite his best efforts, tears well in his eyes. "There are few feelings worse than false hope."

Ned leans forward. He presses a quick kiss on Alexander's forehead. "It's not false. You're cleverer than I am, you only haven't been lucky. Something will turn around, somehow."

"If I were lucky I would have died when Mother did."

"Don't say that!"

"If I live past twenty, you'll know I'm not wrong."

"Alex--"

"No, I mean it, Ned. This isn't bathos for its own sake. If I'm still a clerk in five years, I may as well do as Cousin Peter…."

"No, you mustn't!" Ned lets go Alexander's hand only to embrace him. Alexander loses all resolve. 

He is drowning again, this time in a maelstrom of loss and doubt. Perhaps it _was_ his fault that his father had abandoned them, because he doubted whether Alexander was really his own son. Perhaps it was divine punishment that Alexander and his mother had then fallen ill, that she had not survived the horrendous ordeal. Her mistake had been to bear Alexander, not just once illegitimate, but potentially twice. Perhaps his cousin, Peter Lytton, had felt obliged to his two young charges, James and Alexander, but the additional, unexpected strain of their need had driven the man beyond his endurance. Perhaps Alexander was doomed to exist as one of God's most wretched creatures, doomed to know that he was capable of far more than his lot in life. Perhaps he was now paying for the sins of his parents through a conscious awareness of his wasted potential. Perhaps Ned would forget him in New York and Ned's father would decide that it was time for Alexander to make his own way. It would only be natural for Mr. Stevens to withdraw support that made him look suspiciously like the philanderer he was rumoured to be. 

Alexander feels cursed. He has been at the center of an unending storm with no ground ever high enough to escape the flood. He weeps like a child. Ned holds him all the while, and says nothing.

When the tears subside a blessedly short time later, and Alexander lies quiet again, Ned asks, "Better?"

Alexander laughs ruefully. "No. But--yes. Thank you, Neddy. I--God knows how grateful I am for you and your family."

He doesn't insist again, but his earlier request still hangs thickly between them. Ned kisses him, this time on the cheek, and takes his hand once more. "We're not going anywhere. I'll promise not to die, Alex, if you will only promise not to give up hope."


	2. II. New York, 1774

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this one never happened, but....

II. New York, 1774

 

Four years later, he is _not_ still a clerk, thank God. He'll never clerk again, he tells himself. The situation in the colonies grows worse daily, and Alexander has been pushing his friends and classmates to form a militia company so that they will be ready if--when--open war breaks out. 

He hopes it's soon. Cousin Ann's endowment paid his passage, but it's now down to almost nothing. He's also running out of the meager resources raised for him by Reverend Knox, Mr. Stevens and his former employers, even though he has rationed it as far as he can bear. None of them expected New York to be so expensive. The few shillings earned by writing letters for wags from taverns across town barely helps with expenses for books. (The ladies of the brothels on the edges of campus barter for his services with a different currency.) It's not enough, but if they have a military company already, then he can enlist as an officer. He can draw pay.

Mulligan's shop stands on a narrow street just a few blocks from the main assembly halls of King's College. He enters, wiping his feet, and sheds hat and cloak to hang them on a peg in the narrow foyer. The house is already dark; Herc and his wife probably retired hours ago. He moves with sure steps, nonetheless, up the stairs to the room he shares with Robert Troup. A candle burns inside; he can see its weak light under the door. 

He enters; Robert is bent over the desk, scraping his quill over the page laboriously. "Oh, hullo. Third draft," Robert mutters as Alexander shuts the door behind him. "Master Aldridge and his relentless enthusiasm for the Aristotelian virtues. Did you have a good evening?"

"Could have been better," Alexander admonishes. He kicks off his shoes and sits to remove his stockings.

"I know."

"You ought to have come."

"My profuse apologies, my dear Hamilton, but some of us have to _work_ to create a credible essay. We can't just dash something off and receive full marks."

"Third draft?" Alexander says incredulously. Slippers on, he next trades his jacket for a brocade banyan. It's one of Robert's old ones, a hand-me-down Christmas present, which Herc recut for him. It might be the most comfortable thing he owns. 

"Mm."

"Let me see." He comes to the desk, leaning over Robert's shoulders. "Friendship," he observes with a grin. "Are you applying Aristotle's principles to friendship with England?"

"You know I'm not," Robert laughs. "Can you imagine introducing a modern argument in Aldridge's lessons? I'd fail in truth."

Alexander scans the pages Robert has already completed. "Utility, the greater good…. Oh, I like this bit: 'Two who share a common interest may find their pleasure in that pursuit doubled or more, by their mutual satisfaction and delight in undertaking activities that thus gratify their several and combined enjoyment. Thus is pleasure magnified, where reciprocal participation achieves a greater happiness in both parties than either could achieve alone.' Sounds good to me. I know something that's better with two than one…."

Robert sniggers. "I don't think I'll be providing him any examples of that sort, thank you."

Alexander adopts a shocked expression. "What on earth do you mean, my dear Troup? I was thinking of the mutual benefit of comrades-in-arms, whose shared interest in the participation afforded to a full citizen-subject enjoins them to take note of events of the day and to contribute meaningfully to the lawful execution of policy. Whatever were _you_ thinking?" He waggles his eyebrows. 

Robert grimaces. "Whatever you were thinking, my dear Hamilton, had nothing to do with the Congress in Philadelphia and everything to do with the congress available in the Holy Ground. Will you stop distracting me? If I don't get this done, he'll write to Father."

"It's that dire, is it?" Alexander replies, contrite. "Here, let me look it over properly." He lights a second candle and moves with it and the already-sanded pages to the bed. It's the only other place to sit.

A few minutes later, he looks up. "I don't know what you're worried about," he tells Robert, bringing him his pages back. "It's fine."

"It's not."

He shrugs. "Well, I might have expanded the connexions between the virtues of friendship and generosity, and their pitfalls, but… it's more than enough for Aldridge." 

"He's already after me for shorting him an analysis of Plato two weeks ago. This has to be more than all right. Alexander, just go to bed. I'll be along." Robert reaches up to his neck and stretches, stifling a yawn. "I've been in this chair for hours," he points out.

"Here," Alexander says, moving behind Robert once more. He helpfully offers a massage of the older boy's tense shoulders. Robert pauses, one hand drifting up to rest on Alexander's. 

"I have to finish this," he warns, looking up into Alexander's eyes.

"We'll finish it together. Later." Alexander plucks the quill from Robert's hand. "You need a break. Let me tell you about the coffee house tonight."

With a sigh, Robert turns and reaches for the sand. He sprinkles some on the last parchment, a precaution against potential calamity. Then he rises from his chair and, facing Alexander, slips his arms around the other's waist. 

"Somehow I don't think the coffee house is what's on your mind," he says with a smile.

"Oh, it is. But I won't object if you try to distract me from it," Alexander tells him. He offers Robert a light kiss. It's returned with a deeper one.

Alexander leads Robert to their bed. Robert's already in his nightshirt under his thick banyan and he loses no time divesting Alexander of his extraneous layers. Neckcloth, waistcoat, breeches, and the slippers and robe that he had just donned all come off in a heap to the side of the bed. "I need--" Alexander starts to protest, and "Shhh," Robert tells him, kissing him into silence. Robert leans him back against the quilt. He feels a rush of cold air as Robert lifts the hem of his shirt, exposing a rail thin abdomen and slender hips. "Skin and bones," Robert murmurs. Then Robert feathers kisses down to Alexander's sex, each one a fading dot of heat that makes Alexander gasp with pleasure. Next, Robert takes Alexander's whole length into his mouth. The coffee house, with its Whiggish talk of revolution, could not be further from Alexander's mind anymore. His thoughts narrow to nothing but gratitude that a friend like Robert Troup has come into his life.


	3. III. Valley Forge, 1778

III. Valley Forge, 1778

 

"Damn."

"What?"

"The warming pan's gone cold." Hamilton moves in the darkness. "Laurens, I don't suppose you've an extra pair of stockings?"

Laurens sighs. "Alexander, just get in with me."

There's silence. It stretches long enough that Laurens, who was almost asleep, cracks one eye open. One sliver of moonlight through the shutters slices across Hamilton's wide-eyed stare. 

"I do assure you, it's perfectly safe," Laurens intones with deliberate levity. "And we'll both sleep warmer that way."

After another second's pause, Laurens shuts his eyes again. "Suit yourself," he mutters, and burrows deeper into the think blanket and thinner coverlet.

He hears the rustle of the bedclothes a split-second before he feels cold against his back and the weight of Hamilton climbing in. As soon as the other settles, his body begins to radiate heat, replacing the cold blast of wintry air. However,

"God, your feet are cold!" Laurens exclaims. Even through the stockings, they're like ice.

"Sorry."

"It's all right. I just wasn't expecting it."

Hamilton adjusts again, so that his arm is not pinned between them.

"You have a brother, don't you?" Laurens asks after a minute, quite hesitantly.

"Mm? Yes…" Hamilton's answer is faint and half-audible.

"Good. Then you'll have learned not to kick."

Hamilton kicks, playfully, on cue. He snorts at the joke.

Laurens chuckles. "Henry used to kick me so constantly I fell out of bed," he says, grateful that the small mischief broke the ice. "He would slip his nurse and come into my room at least once a week."

Hamilton mumbles something that is completely swallowed by the pillow and the back of Laurens' head.

"What was that, my dear? I couldn't hear."

"I said, I never slept in the same bed as James. Neddy shared, before he left for school, though, and of course, once I arrived at school myself there were roommates. Troup, Mulligan…. It's more unusual to sleep in a bed alone, in some ways."

"May one ask why you hesitated, then?" Laurens asks.

There's a pause. "This bed is rather narrow for the two of us," Hamilton observes. "It's not like we're boys of fifteen." 

Laurens holds his breath, wondering if Hamilton will say more. After an incident during Laurens' first week on staff, he has not volunteered any further details about his home or childhood. Laurens has not asked, and moreover has avoided telling his own childhood anecdotes out of respect. He has, he realizes, refrained from telling Hamilton anything much about himself, lest the other interpret it as pressure to reciprocate. But he has longed to know more of how it went for his friend, before they became friends. He longs to know everything about Hamilton, even--

He's suddenly quite glad his back is to the other. Unbidden, his body betrays an interest he knows he had best quash. He fully understood Hamilton's comment about fifteen-year-old boys at school; he refuses to disgrace himself in Hamilton's eyes, by giving in to such puerile urges. Hadn't he assured Hamilton it was perfectly safe? He must prove it so. 

He reminds himself, not too ruefully, that he is technically a married man. A father. But he cannot find thoughts of Martha reassuring at present. In fact, they unsettle him even more. He takes it for an indication that his affliction was sent as a divine test of faith. Which means the temptation of Hamilton must also be part of the test.

And Hamilton might even have an inkling that he tested and tempted Laurens. Why else would he tease about young boys' playful embraces? With a shudder, he understands that the younger aide's own hesitation to join him--in the most innocent act of sleeping, on a night as cold as this--must mean Laurens had betrayed some hint of his unnatural desire. But what? Had he made some gesture that communicated an unintentional message, or indulged in an embrace that lasted overlong? Had he done anything to give the impression that he was growing daily more fond?

He concentrates on breathing again, evenly, deeply, to calm himself. It will come to nothing, he promises himself. Not that he ever dreamed of making an advance, even if he were certain Hamilton would respond in kind. He knows better. It's too dangerous to even think a--yes, he'll admit it, lustful--thought about any of his comrades. But, especially if Hamilton suspects anything untoward, and thus finds him repugnant, he knows he must never say or do anything that could be...misconstrued. He will give the other no reason for any quarrel and will endeavor only to show that kindness appropriate for two fellows with the same rank and responsibility. It's only proper and polite, which is more natural to Laurens than his weakness. More importantly, to allow himself to consider any other course would be a sin. 'God, give me strength,' he thinks.

"When we were ill," Hamilton murmurs after Laurens' breathing has steadied, "they put me in my mother's bed beside her, so they could treat us both together and contain the sickness."

Laurens realizes that Hamilton doesn't know Laurens is still awake. Instead, the other has allowed himself a rare reminiscence because he believes that Laurens' silence means he has fallen asleep. His musing must have stretched the minutes beyond his expectation. He debates maintaining his silence, letting Hamilton continue speaking to himself as is his wont. But no, it feels too much like eavesdropping. Another sin to pile on top of his already miserable tally of them. At least this one is easy enough to correct. "Was that...when she died?" he asks very gently.

"Yes." The single word is filled to the brim with half a dozen emotions.

"My mother died, too, when I was sixteen," Laurens offered. "I was inconsolable." 'And my father thought I showed weak for mourning her so acutely,' he thought.

"I...was so ill at the time I didn't even know she was gone at first," Hamilton tells him. "They moved her body and I thought they were just taking her away from me. I wouldn't let go her hand."

"How old…?"

"Twelve. Well, thirteen. But James had been sent from home so he wouldn't fall ill. And--" He breaks off abruptly. "You know, I don't quite know how it is that I find myself confessing to you intimate details of my life that I had resolved never to divulge. That first week, and now this. It's confounding. No one who was not on St. Croix at the time need know any of my sorry past. Why do I tell you what you cannot but find wretched, and think the less of me after?"

It might be rhetorical, as if he is asking both why he _chooses_ to speak of himself, as well as why he chooses to unburden his thoughts to _Laurens_ , as opposed to any other. Either way, Laurens is heartily glad for the opportunity to invite further intercourse.

"Believe me, my dear Alexander, I have only the interest of friendship at heart," Laurens says, knowing it for a slight untruth. Friendship, he admits, is not his sole interest. Would that it were. "I could not bear for you to engage in any discourse which causes you distress," he adds, feeling better for the unequivocal honesty of that statement, at least.

"That's just it," Hamilton replies. "If it were anyone else, it _would_ be distressing. Ordinarily I would never even consider exposing the bare and impecunious circumstances from which I have risen. But for some reason, John, I--I don't mind talking about it to you."

Laurens draws a steadying breath. Though he had given Hamilton his Christian name weeks ago, and Hamilton had obliged in kind, he could count on one hand the number of times Hamilton had exercised the privilege. It was almost as if he had begrudged the necessity of offering familiarity. Laurens feels a new kind of warmth spreading through his veins. It settles just where it ought not. 'Damn, damn, damn!' he screams to himself.

Meanwhile, having remembered his vow of silence, Hamilton seems to decide to follow it. He turns so that their backs press against each other, further proof that after his admission, he needs to create distance. "That won't do," he mutters after a moment. "Too narrow. Turn over."

Laurens stiffens. "I--can't sleep on my right side. My shoulder wound…."

"Oh. Well, my arm's gone numb. Hang on," Hamilton shifts again. This time, he slides the problematic limb under the pillow, so that Laurens' head rests on both. "All right?" he asks.

"Yes, quite."

They lapse back into silence. Whether Hamilton meant that he doesn't mind or not, he clearly finds the subject still a touchy and uncomfortable one. Laurens knows that he's not going to get any more scraps of Hamilton's story tonight. Within minutes, Laurens can hear the soft snoring to which he has grown accustomed. Hamilton's breath tickles the curls of shorter hair at the base of his neck. Laurens lies awake, his brain swimming with the implications of their brief conversation, and of the reality of his body's response to Hamilton being so near. At least he has confirmation of one thing: Hamilton does not, in fact, find him so awful. It's a thought he finds at once comforting and terribly disconcerting. It will make maintaining the proper form all the more difficult. He again prays fervently for restraint and discipline until he, too, finally falls asleep.


	4. IV. Albany, 1780

IV. Albany, 1780

 

It's his wedding night. He has no idea what he's doing.

Well. He has _many_ ideas about what to _do_ \--he's no stranger to the arts of liaisons, but of course, his palate has always before been sated by those with an equal (or greater) notion of the mechanics of intercourse. Laurens being one of the rare exceptions. The poor, beautiful man had been certain every step of the way of his damnation. Hamilton had had to walk him through every step, practically, the first time they had made the extent of their affections known to each other. Even after bringing Laurens over the edge, relaxing him enough to let nature take over, he sensed that Laurens was waiting for the bolt from above to strike. Hamilton worries that Laurens finds twice as much guilt to feel for every act of ecstacy they share. Not that it curtailed his friend altogether, only that it made things….more strained than either would have them. When he thinks how much time Laurens lost before admitting his desires, and how much pain those desires generate for the man, it makes him both wistful and sorry that of the colonies' many virtues, a cosmopolitan attitude to fleshly pursuits is not one. Certes, the tropics of his youth were by no means much more enlightened, but at least they were more inclined to forgive aberration. 

_Some_ aberration, he reminds himself bitterly.

No matter; that was there and then, and now his bride is preparing to receive him in all the ways that are good and proper and absolutely natural between a man and woman. And he is still not certain he's made a wise decision. What does he want with a marriage when he and Laurens--

He ought not to have been thinking of Laurens, tonight of all nights. But he cannot seem to push the memories aside, nor the guilt that they cannot seem to secure better for his friend (lover) than a parole within Pennsylvania. 

And yet, thinking of Laurens does conjure the similarities between their first discovery of Cupid's proving grounds and the task he now faces with Eliza. He will have to guide her, as well, mindful of her anxieties, fears, and pains. Again, it occurs to him to wonder _why_ he has undertaken this foolish notion of getting himself a _wife_.

As if on cue, the door to her boudoir opens and his mistress steps through it. Her silk nightgown is nothing special, except for the ruffles of lace at its neck, cuffs, and hem, which must have come from France before the Royal Navy's blockades made such importation difficult. The neckline is cut low enough to expose her collarbone, and the breast beneath it flutters with excitement. 

In three steps, he's at her side, his arms round her enfolding, and she lifts her head into his demanding kiss. 

"Alexander…" she breathes softly. 

"My Eliza," he returns, withdrawing far enough to gaze down into the pools of her black eyes. "Are you nervous, my dearest?"

"I--no," she says doubtfully. Then with more assurance: "No. I'm quite composed. How could I be nervous of you?"

"Of me, I should hope never," he says, smiling at her boldness. It was reserved for him, where with all others she was known to be retiring. "I only meant that--you aren't--er. That is,"

"Shh. You think because I'm a woman I have no sensibility for the lawful union of man and wife?" She laughs and it's only then that he realizes it's he, and not Eliza, who is unsure how fast to move. "My dear Hamilton, you men are such strange creatures sometimes." She takes his hands and leads him closer to the bed. Once at its side, she draws back the bedclothes and climbs up. Then she pulls him in front of her perch and puts one of his hands against her thigh. "Do you imagine your letters have not made me long for tonight? I am yours, husband," she tells him, with the slightest hint of a challenge. "Now and forever."

He kneels on the bed. She rucks up her shift so that he can crawl between her legs. As he does, he traces a line up the inside of her thigh, finds the top of her stocking and the garter, and pauses to push both down below the knee. Her gown obstructs the view, but he goes by feel, up to the crease of her hip. Eliza's eyes roll with pleasure; she tries not to squirm.

"Ticklish, is she?" he teases. 

"Oh, no--" Eliza protests, her eyes widening at the glint in his. "Don't--!" But she's laughing already as he feathers his fingertips higher, over the swell of her hip and up to the splendid mound of her bosom. She permits herself one girlish shriek of playful protest.

"Not tonight," he promises, postponing such childish games for another time. Instead he cups her breast under the gown. Her eyes widen again, but this time it's with passion. He brushes his thumb over her nipple and it hardens instantly. Unable to resist, Alexander leans in to suckle through the silk. As he latches on, his hands seek the globes of her bottom, pulling her down along the mattress so that she can lie beneath him.

She moans, grabs his hair, presses him harder into her breast. She's murmuring and he realizes that in the susurrus are snatches of phrases he wrote to her during their courtship. She's memorized passages of his love letters and now rehearses them to herself. 

He lifts his nightdress. A stroke or two is all it takes to be ready to enter her, but he knows he'll hurt her if he thrusts forward now. He releases her breast, a wet spot on her gown where he had been sucking, and instead captures her mouth with his own.

"Mmm.. 'Gelic … gave …" she is saying between gasps and kisses.

He pauses to let her speak, and realizes she is pointing to the bedside nightstand. 

"Angelica gave me some...tips," she tells him. She points again--she can't reach it in their current position. He sits up and leans over to open the little drawer in the nightstand. Inside is a tub of oil mixed with fatty tallow. It has some sort of sweet scent to mask its more rancid tang. 

"This will be useful, but--later, I think," he says. First there's another way to prepare her, and he would rather taste her without the unguent's flavor overpowering the sensation. He shimmies down the bed, hands on her hips, and sets to with a will.

Eliza moans. He feels her hands reach for him and he realizes he's going too fast for her. He lifts his head and checks in. But to his glee, she's on her elbows, looking at him. "Why did you stop?" she asks, breathless. 

"Your pardon; I shall resume," he tells her, and dives down to lap at her vulva. When she's near her peak, he pulls away and returns to the tallow pot. He scoops out a portion and slicks himself with it, then with the residue still between his fingers, he probes gently between her legs. He finds her sex and slides in one finger, then two. Eliza whines with fervent pleasure.

"Oh! More," she demands, reaching for his hand. He hooks his finger expertly (no need to tell her where he received this particular education!) and elicits another high moan replete with rapturous enjoyment. As she relaxes into his touch, he adds a third finger. Then, with another (unnecessary) stroke to ensure his own erection, he gently guides his soldier home. 

As he had told Laurens months ago, he is a lover in earnest, restoring the empire of Hymen in his affections. Eliza, for her part, does not disappoint him but takes to their coupling with such enthusiasm that, were a man not certain of her virtues, he might wonder whether she had acquired experiences unworthy of an unmarried lady of quality. But Alexander knows his mistress is no jade. She is soft and yielding, with an innocence and excitement that separate her from such women as can be obtained in the Holy Ground. 

After their first consummation, Eliza holds him to her and begins to explore her marital privileges languidly: a caress of his neck, a stroke against his wrist, lazy kisses dropped on his brow. She leans up from the pillow to bestow a kiss, which forces him to sit up from her bosom. When he deepens the kiss, she slides around to press against the length of his side. Her hands wander across his chest. To his great delight, she tugs his nightshirt up to remove it, so that she can pepper his bare skin with light pecks and even a few experimental licks.

"Well, Mrs. Hamilton!" he says approvingly. "You astonish me. I do believe you enjoy yourself, my darling."

She laughs with a full throat and does not stop her expedition across his torso. When her gaze falls on his shaft, she pauses for the first time. "Oh…" she says, but not with disgust or shock. More like curiosity. Her hand hesitates half an inch from the delicate skin; he can feel the heat of her palm across the narrow span. She looks at him, not quite sure how to form the question.

"Go ahead," Alexander tells her with a nod. Her fingers land gently and the fire of contact makes his manhood twitch. 

She giggles, pulling away, then provokes another reflexive jump with her fingertip. "Does that always happen?" she teases. "No wonder the male sex is so intemperately obsessed with the sheathing and unsheathing of swords."

"Then come, love, and sheath mine," he says approvingly. He grabs her hand and pulls it back down over his length, showing her how to bring him to ecstasy.

She's a willing and able student. After, they tangle together in the sheets, alternately dozing and talking, learning how best to fit against each other. Only after she drifts into sleep, dawn not far off, do his thoughts return to Laurens. Once, he had chided his dearest friend with the notion that getting a wife would be foolishness personified. He repents that assertion now. This, Alexander thinks--his Eliza--is worth the folly.


	5. V. Philadelphia, 1790

V. Philadelphia, 1790

 

Philip loves having Papa's attention all to himself.

It doesn't happen often--Papa works hard, and he's so very busy--but with Angelica and the other boys all in Albany with Mama, Grandmama, and Grandpapa, Philip's the only one who gets to see Papa every day. 

Busy as he is, Papa does set time aside to ask Philip about his lessons, and sometimes Philip gets to go with him on walks. There are meals, too, though Papa often has to be reminded to come to the table. Philip finds that funny, because he would _never_ miss a chance to eat if he could help it. 

But the best time by far is bedtime. No matter what he's doing, when it's time for sleep, Papa comes to tuck Philip in to the big bed. They read together for a few minutes. Then Papa kisses him goodnight, settles the covers about him, and reads his own book while Philip falls asleep. Philip's aware that Papa usually goes back downstairs for a long time afterward, at least another hour (and Mama says probably more like four hours, or even five!), but he knows that eventually, Papa will come back up and sleep right next to Philip. Just him and Papa. No Angelica, the cover-thief. No Alexander, who always chases Philip across the bed until he's only got the tiniest edge of mattress to himself. No James, who steals the pillow and when he doesn't, he clings so hard to Philip's neck it's hard to breathe. Just Papa, who doesn't kick or smother, but whose warmth is a comforting, steady presence when Philip wakes in the mornings. And if Philip sometimes clings on, Papa doesn't ever seem to mind.

He's dimly aware that something hasn't been entirely right between Papa and Mama for a few months. But he's not sure what it means. Mama says in letters that Grandpapa's ill all the time and she stays to take care of him. But Philip's not sure that's really the whole problem. He has a Plan to find out if what he fears might be so, really is so.

He thinks at first he'll put the Plan in motion during their bedtime ritual. Papa's always most attentive then, and if Philip reads particularly well before he asks his question, Papa might be pleased and proud enough to give him a straight answer. But at the last minute, while they're reading, he chickens out. Papa looks distracted and tired and it makes Philip anxious. Besides, he tells himself as he snuggles down next to Papa, Papa's goal at this time is to make Philip sleep. He won't be happy if Philip stalls him with questions and cares.

So instead, he settles under the covers while Papa reads his book, but he only feigns sleep. Papa looks over a few minutes later and, believing his boy has succumbed, he fusses with the blanket a little, plants another light kiss on Philip's head, and stands. A moment after, the light recedes with him as he tip-toes out.

Philip counts to one hundred, first in English, then in French. Then he throws off the covers and sits up so that he won't fall asleep. He rehearses his modification to the Plan.

"I'll wait 'til I hear him on the stairs," he tells himself, whispering in the dark room. "Then I'll lie down again and listen. When he climbs in bed, I'll pretend to wake up. Then I can ask. Yes."

Once, he almost nods off, but a noise from the street rouses him. He wants to go to the window, but daren't: this room is directly above Papa's study, and he'll hear the floorboards if Philip leaves the bed. Instead, he imagines the horse cart or carriage he can hear at the corner, the horses complaining because they, too, are tired and want to go to sleep.

In time, the sound he's waiting for arrives: Papa is coming upstairs. His tread is light, because he'd already exchanged his hard-soled shoes for slippers, but the stairs are old and creaky, and there's a soft glow of his candle as he carries it up with him.

Philip flops down and arranges himself as if he's been sleeping all the while. He's careful to spread himself along the mattress, so that Papa will have to move him a bit to get in. It's a frequent complaint Papa has--and moreover, one that will make waking up seem more realistic. 

He listens to Papa undressing. He's humming a tune under his breath: more luck for Philip. Finally, Papa sighs heavily and Philip feels the mattress dip. Papa gently prods Philip's leg and arm to make room. It's time.

With a yawn that isn't at all fakery, Philip opens his eyes. "Papa?"

"Shh, go back to sleep," Papa tells him. "I didn't wish to wake you."

"I'm not tired," Philip insists, though it's not exactly true. Yet now that the moment has come, he's excited and nervous, and his pulse feels fast.

"Are you feeling well, my dear?" Papa asks, frowning in concern.

"Yes, quite well. Only…."

"Only what?"

"Papa, is Mama cross with me?"

"Cross? With you? No, of course not. Why?"

"Well, how come we stay in Philadelphia and Mama and the others don't?"

Papa smiles and puts an arm round Philip's slim shoulders. "Oh, love. That's nothing to worry you. I've told you, it's only that your Grandpapa is unwell, and your Mama wants to stay to take care of him."

"She should be taking care of us, though," Philip pronounces.

"And she does, with letters and prayers and--oh, all sorts of supports. And soon, when your Grandpapa is feeling better, or when the Congress calls a recess, we can all be together again, either here or in Albany or even in our home in New York. What would you say to that?"

"Yes, please!" Philip says. "But. Why is it just me here, and not 'Gelica or the others?"

"Because you're the oldest. Because I couldn't get my work done with all of you underfoot, and besides, Albany's better for your siblings." He smiles and gives Philip an affectionate squeeze. "Philip, listen to your Papa: you've done nothing wrong. No one's cross with you."

"Is Mama cross at you, then?"

"Don't worry about that," Papa says. It's not quite the answer Philip wanted, but it's close. 

"But, Papa, can't you work at home in Albany, then?"

Papa scratches his head. "Philip, you know your Papa's work is very important, yes?"

"Oh, yes," Philip says, making no effort to disguise his pride. "Making a bank for President Washington," he continued, to prove he knew what Papa did.

"Er, yes," Papa agrees. "For everyone, not just the President," he clarifies a second later. "And it's work that must be done here, because…" he pauses, as if searching for a simple reason with no doubt as to its truth, "...because here's where the bank is."

"Oh." Papa's right: there's no fighting that. "But why doesn't Grandpapa come here, too?"

"Ah, well, because he's more comfortable at home. You wouldn't want him to have to suffer here, where the air is worse and there are steps at every turn, would you?"

Philip considers this. "No, I suppose not."

"Certainly not," Papa agrees. "We'll see them soon, I promise."

That's something. Papa never breaks promises. Still, the promise is a little vague for Philip's taste. "How soon?"

Papa sighs. "If nothing else, at the holidays. How would it be if we write to Mama tomorrow and ask about it?"

"All right," Philip says. "As long as she's not cross."

"No, there's no reason for her to be cross with you, dearest son."

"Or with you?"

"...Or with me," Papa says after a moment's thought. At first, Philip thinks perhaps Papa's not as reassuring as he intends, but then Papa smiles again and he believes. "Now, go to sleep, it's very late."

Philip lies down and thinks while Papa arranges his pillow. He's done nothing wrong, and the more he thinks about it, the more sure he is that Papa couldn't possibly have done anything wrong, either. He sees that now, so of course, it's just that Mama has a duty to look after Grandpapa. That notion brings up another question, and since Papa's in an indulgent mood, Philip thinks, why not?

"Papa?"

"Yes," Papa's voice sounds a bit more testy--not angry, really, but as if Philip's pushing his luck when he's been twice told to go to sleep.

"Thomas Meriton has two Grandpapas, and two Grandmamas, too. Why do I have only one of each?"

Papa draws a sharp breath. Philip's question surprised him. Philip worries now that it's one of those things he's not supposed to ever talk about, like the time Mama was supposed to have a baby and didn't. He's about to take it back when Papa answers.

"Everyone has two, somewhere. In your case, your Grandmama Hamilton--my mother--died when I was a little older than you are now. As for your Grandpapa Hamilton…." there's a long pause. "He lives very far away," Papa finishes. His voice is quiet and a little tight. 

"England?" Aunt Angelica and Cousin Philip lived there. He'd written to Philip. They had the same name.

"No, not England. St. Kitts. It's an island in the Caribbean."

Philip sits up a bit. This is too exciting. "Where the sugar comes from?"

"Yes."

"Why does he live there and not New York?"

"Well, he's not from New York. He's from Scotland, but he left there for the West Indies. He's lived there for a long time."

"But… _you're_ from New York," Philip insists. He's confused. Papa's ordinarily a smart man, the smartest man in the world. It doesn't make any sense that Papa's papa doesn't live where Papa grew up. Surely Papa's fooling him.

"Oh, Philip. Go to sleep, can't you?" Papa pleads.

"I'm not tired, Papa. And now I want to understand. Please?"

Papa sighs. Philip's eyes are used to the dark now, and he clearly sees Papa close his own eyes and take several deep breaths. It's as if he's gathering strength. If Papa were another sort of papa, Philip might expect to be beaten. But Papa never beats any of them, even when Alexander hit Angelica on purpose just to see what would happen. 

"I suppose you've some right to know," Papa's muttering. "All right." He takes another breath and explains. "I wasn't born in New York. I came there, oh, goodness, twenty years ago. I came as a student, when I was seventeen." He stops. "That's a lie." Philip's shocked. Papa _never_ lies. Sometimes he makes jokes or funs with them, just to make them laugh or to test them, but he never ever lies. "I was nineteen when I came to New York, but I had lied about being younger."

"Why?" Philip sits all the way up. He's utterly captivated by Papa's story.

"Well, lots of the other boys were much younger and I didn't want to seem entirely out of place," Papa says. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I came there from St. Croix, another island in the West Indies. And then the war came and I met your Mama and you came along and here we are."

"Oh." Philip says. There are still obvious gaps in what Papa's saying, even he can tell that, but Papa's also using his explaining voice. The one that says, 'this is all you need to know now; if you still don't understand, it's all right; wait a while and it will become clearer in time.' Although he really wants to, he doesn't press. 

"So, your Grandpapa Hamilton lives on St. Kitts. And right now the seas are rather dangerous to traverse, between the weather and the wars, so it's unlikely he'll be coming here to stay--though I've invited him to live with us--and it's most unlikely we will be able to visit there, either. Plus, he's old, you know, and not in the best health."

"Like Grandpapa Schuyler?"

"Something like that," Papa says. "Anyway, that's all you need to know, right now." Papa says, giving voice to the same sentiment Philip had already figured out from his tone. Though Philip has more questions than he can count, he can't ask them now. Papa has closed the topic.

"Tell about the war?" he asks instead.

Papa laughs. "Absolutely not! You are going to be too tired for your lessons tomorrow as it is. You need no nightmares to further disturb your rest. Now, enough, Philip. Lie down. Close your eyes. Sleep."

"Yes, Papa," Philip says, wisely realizing that the time to argue has passed. He lies down as told, though he's still so filled with awe he can't imagine how he might fall asleep. It seems incredible that when Papa was Philip's age, he lived in such a fantastic place. He must have seen pirates and monkeys and parrots. He must have swum in the ocean! It's impossible to believe. His Papa's a war hero, everyone knows that, but he's hardly the sort of person one thinks of in the same breath as _pirates_. It's even more impossible to believe that Papa never talks about his childhood, when it must have been so exciting. Philip has the sense that it will take a great deal to convince Papa to tell about his early adventures. But maybe, if Philip is careful, he can learn more. 

As he tries to think about how to go about it, he becomes dimly aware that Papa's singing softly again. It's a lullaby, in French. Philip snuggles closer and Papa hugs him tight. A new thought is forming now. He misses Angelica, it's true, but he's glad, in this moment, that he doesn't have to share Papa with anyone else. Only here and now does he really believe that he's here in Philadelphia because Papa wants him here. It's because Papa would be lonely otherwise. 

Philip basks in the attention Papa gives to him. He clings on to Papa, and falls fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited on November 7 to account for my lack of ability to do math. Specifically, Philip is meant to be 8 years old in this scene, meaning it should be taking place in 1790. The previous version set the scene in 1793. Consequently, a few other adjustments had to be made (John wasn't born yet), and the Reynolds affair had not yet started. Whatever tension Philip is picking up between Alexander and Elizabeth was, presumably, something else... though who knows? Perhaps things weren't totally solid even before he met Maria....


End file.
